Highway Hallelujah

That little yellow light had nagged me for long enough. That shining little firefly can’t be ignored forever. Sometimes I think I can hear it screaming at me from the dashboard. “Hey! You better stop soon! You know you’ll have to! Either you stop this car or I will!” But I test my limits, deny physics, and by the sheer power of will I am able to continue on. But after a while I have no choice but to give in, I can only convince myself that my gas tank is an everlasting wellspring of petroleum for so long. That little light glares menacingly as it casts ominous shadows across that bold, block lettered E. What is E whispering? E may be the fifth letter of the alphabet, but on the great political grand-stand of my dashboard, E is second in command, whispering, filling that little lights head with delusions of grandeur and oil lust.

I-5 is a very long, very lonely road. Dairy farms, alfalfa fields, and “congress created dust bowl” billboards make up the majority of the scenery. But every few miles there are the unmistakable signs of life. From miles away you can see the oasis with its looming towers, the white steel tree trunks that bear the load of huge gas station signs. The yellow sea shell that calms your heart yet sets a fire ablaze in your pocket. “Yes little light, the sea shell is near, calm down”

Pulling into a gas station on the I-5 is like sitting down on a crowded mega-church pew on a hot summers day. As I rolled slowly into the gas lot my eyes surveyed the pews for a place to sit down. Creeping past the rows I was met by slow turning heads that couldn’t help but condemn the latecomer. It was 10:48 and the late service started 18 minutes ago. I was “that guy” creeping in during “Lord fill me up”, praying that nobody noticed me slipping in. I continued to survey the sanctuary. Ah ha! One empty pump between the Volvo in khaki slacks and the PT cruiser in the purple flower dress. I had to “pardon me” past an usher or two, but I made it, just in time to meet the man in white.

Being the good Christian boy that I am, I have a natural suspicion of men dressed in entirely in white, especially if paired with a chin blanketed in full flowing facial hair. It seemed that today Jesus was trying to get to San Jose in his rusty Toyota pickup truck. Sure maybe his white long sleeve shirt had a few grease stains, and something I’d hoped was red wine on the cuffs. Sure his white jeans were covered in paint, and so what if his off white Nike running shoes were missing laces? Jesus didn’t need laces. Also, his twelve disciples may have been temporarily transfigured into twelve white trash bags filled with clothes and the rest of his mobile belongings piled high on the rear of that rusty donkey.

A long drawn “Heeey maaan” rasped it’s way through the fumes. His voluptuous vowels hit my ears with the same guilty pleasure as an accidental whiff of gasoline. I turned and saw Him. He glowed. The heat must have gotten to me. The stretched syllables continued,“Heeey maaan, my names Tooodd, I’m on my way to San Jose, could you spare some-” I cut him off. “Say no more ‘Todd'” I said with a wink.

Minutes later, the interstate savior, the messiah of mileage, the Emanuel no longer on empty journeyed on toward dusty San Jose with no place to lay his head.

little buggies

i wrote a story once about a planet pretty close to earth. In the story, the planet was filled with tiny little insects that could talk. The tiny little buggies were the most advanced species on the planet, or at least they thought so. In fact the little buggies were so advanced that they liked to build machines to make their lives better, machines to keep each other alive, and machines to give them pleasure, but they especially liked inventing machines with which to smash each other with. The little buggies would separate into teams based on how many legs they had or how big their buggy eyes were or whether they could fly or not. Then the teams of buggies would play with fancy squashing machines.

The buggies believed that they had evolved from a smaller less intelligent organism. What most of them didn't think about was if they had in fact evolved from that lesser being, all of the little buggy machines were really messing up the whole evolutionary process. The machines were making it so all of the sickly buggies and the buggies with deformities and malfunctions were being allowed to make more little buggies. This went on for so long that the buggies actually suffered from de-evolution, a fact which they were too busy with buggy machines to notice. Actually there were a couple especially intelligent buggies that realized what was happening, but when they tried to tell other little buggies they ended up in buggy jail or buggy institutions for the mentally disturbed. But the de-evolution didn't last for long, all the little buggies ended up squashing each other with nasty machines until every little buggy was a little puddle on the windshield of history.

I threw the story away, but i think it went something like that. it was shit.

“I’m never going to the library with you again” : A Fart story

The sky was fading to a gradient blue/black, and the trees were jagged silhouettes against the city lights reflected on the grey clouds. I hadn’t accomplished a lot during the day so it seemed that the twilight was where i would find my productivity.
So there we were, my girlfriend and I, sitting in the the dim, quiet upstairs of our university library. Only the sporadic tip tip tipping of gentle fingers on key boards and page turning drive bys could be heard in the dampened air between the book shelves. The ancient musk of withering hardbacks loomed around us. The beige nostalgia of the 70’s that clung to the wall was only visible behind ramparts of books tightly packed onto the shelves.

Only a half dozen hard at work peers were within earshot. The pressures of the day were building up inside of me. The stresses of class and the disappointment of poor food quality were pressing hard against my soul. If only there were respite, a release from the tension.

“Shhh” I said

“What?” she asked

“just listen” I said

And in the deafening silence the pressures of college life released.

“I’m never going to the library with you again” echoed softly into the cosmos.

La Salida.

Stepping out of the car I heaved my loaded backpack across one shoulder. The bus station looked friendly enough. The adobe colored walls and the red tile roof were the familiar standard. I gave the car door a firm swing shut, to assert my dominance, realizing I hadn’t called my father to tell him about my sudden switch from air travel to luxurious bus travel. I’d never taken a bus anywhere before, except to elementary school, where even as a child I knew I was missing out on the real authentic bus riding experience. My dad however was not as optimistic about my decision. I explained to him the savings and told him I was a big boy and also that the trip would take an extra 6 hours. He simply laughed and let me know, with as little paternal sarcasm he could hide, what he thought of my decision. We ended the conversation with him suggesting he would pay for the plane ticket if I changed my mind. Yeah right, dad.

The Santa Ana bus station was no place for me that morning, but in the glorious American tradition of budget travel I had opted for a genuine bus ride in place of yuppie infested air travel. The deal was unbelievable, $39 for a nine-hour bus ride gave me much more bang for my buck rivaled to $300 for a 3 hour Airplane ticket. Those mathematical savants in the room would have already figured out that the bus ride only cost me around $4.30 an hour, whereas the greedy airplane industry would have drained me for upwards of $100 an hour. The choice was obvious. My fellow bus passengers however seemed to have taken advantage of this economic opportunity out of necessity and not the thrill of savings.

It was one of those summer mornings that should have smelled of ocean fog and trimmed hedges, a morning where the cool air should have given my lungs a thrill to keep breathing. But the bus station gave no such condolences and instead of fog and hedges my nose was subjugated to short, terrible breaths of diesel exhaust and long since bathed transients. It was hot and dense under the bus stop overhang, where the shade it provided was a big fat liar, and the company it shaded was just as shady.

With my slim cut jeans, flip-flops, V-neck t-shirt and headband, my sore thumb was the most inconspicuous thing about me. If I told you that on either side of me sat two very large, leather faced migrant workers, each draped in what seemed like authentic weaved ponchos, you would probably think I was exaggerating, I wish that were the case. In addition to my indigenous friends, the crowd consisted of a few single mothers, seven tiny children, two traveling transients, a handful of presumably well-behaved gang members, and a young couple that had a haze of newlywed about them. We were a motley crew, but if these were to be my shipmates during the voyage across the dusty oceans of central California, so be it.

A voice came across the loud speaker announcing the arrival of our trusty vessel. The dialectal dispatch came first in Spanish, followed by an English translation peppered with summersaulting r’s and sensual n’s. Down the row of empty 30-foot parking spaces our bus came a crawling. It’s diesel rumblings were an angry pit-bull with a fresh tracheotomy. It came to a halt at the curb just a few feet from the crowd of anxious travelers. I could feel the heat from underneath the bus blasting my sandaled feet. It was gross, as if someone who hadn’t brushed for days was blowing hot, stinky breath on my toes. The bus knelt down with a hydraulic hiss that sent my golden lochs a flutter. With a squeak the doors of the bus cranked open. Sitting in the sheepskin driver’s seat was our captain. I’ll skip the physical description of our bus driver and let her name do it for me. On a small silver nametag in the shape of a running dog, printed in bold black lettering was the name “Yolanda”. With the Greyhound equivalent of “Aaaaaallllll aboooarrrd!” Yolanda beckoned us to line up and have our tickets ready. The line shortened and one by one the crowd climbed the oversized steps up into the growling k9.

My nerves hiccupped. I had a flash of a pristine airport, sanitized and sparkling with all the comfort and aesthetics I was used to. It wasn’t too late! I could still get out! I could be on a plane in a matter of hours and still be home before this silver Twinkie made it over the grapevine! Just step out of line! RUN!

Yea right, dad.

Happy assembly day

As one highly intellectual human put it, 22 years ago, today was the day that i was assembled in a factory and programmed to kill Will Smith. Unfortunately, it's been 22 years and im no closer to having my cold grip around that ebony trunk of a neck than i was when i first activated my primary directive codec. I can't help to think that Will Smith should have been eliminated years ago and i should be taking his place in the upcoming Bad Boyz 3. But who's to say it's Will Smiths time? Maybe theres a reason that my impressive array of shoulder mounted rockets and nipple concealed machine guns haven't had the satisfaction of snuffing the Fresh Prince himself, thus making me next in line to the throne of Bel Air? Whats taking me so long?

Will smith grows stronger by the day! He's even built himself a tiny robot version of himself and taught it karate! i think it's called JadenBot 5000. He also has another little automaton named WillowBot, she doesn't know karate. in fact im not sure if anyone knows what her prime directive is. I think she may have a glitch or an error in her programming, she hasn't done anything notable except experience mechanical errors in her neck, consequently whipping her hair back and forth. This usually happens in three minute and thirteen second intervals.

So Will Smith and his tiny band of ragtag child robots have eluded me for too long, i vow to accomplish my mission by my 23rd assembly day. In the interim, i suggest you go see Bad Boyz 3 when it comes out, it promises to be equally as mediocre as the previous 2.

Someday i will rule Bel Air

Sexy bathroom mirror self portrait

So there i was, in my bathroom, with my phresh new Polo tee (complete with fully erect colar), my super heterosexual sunglasses, bitchin' new Lucky brand jeans (just low enough so that only a tasteful bit of my thong could be seen) and my trusty studded belt that glistened with magnificence. Do i even need to mention how awesome my hair looked? My head was the sexiest sea urchin you've ever seen. Needless to say i looked good.

if only i could capture this moment forever. Perhaps so i could look back and maybe someday show my grandkids.

"hey there Zorboth, why don't you hop off that hover board and come see how hawt your grandpa used to be."

But alas, i didn't have any phrends present to take my picture. A sad thing indeed.
Wait a tic...

Blogs are st00pid, But they taste sooooo good.

So Darth Vader walks into a bar. It's good thing he was wearing a helmet. But it was still super funny to watch...probably.

So, i've had this blog for like two years and haven't posted a single thing. Which is good because i went back and looked at all of the posts i never published and they were all super lame. You seriously have no idea, sometimes i look back and wonder why no one ever told me how st00pid i sounded. Anyways enough with the self deprecation. As long as were practicing full disclosure, i had to lookup the word deprecation to make sure i was using it right, turns out i was. confidence. vocabulary. Vo-con-cab-fid-ulary-ence. Voconcabfidularience. mmmmm.

So yea I'll probably post some things. i will probably plaster it all over facebook, and theres nothing you can do about it. Well actually i won't be posting a single thing. I'm using a ghost writer. He's an actual ghost, a transparent typist if you will. He will be doing all the posting. He's also asian, if that matters to anyone. Or rather, "I'm asian", since he's the one typing. Kind of paradoxical and confusing i know, get used to it, he (I) gets a kick out of confusing the (i havent decided if im going to let him curse on the blog yet, if i decide for it i come back and insert all sorts of awesome words. but for now here's a punctuation parade) $#!^ out of 'squishys'. Thats what he (I) calls the living. It's because, for the most part, were all kind of squishy, or something like that. It's slightly derogatory, i know. But theres nothing really we can do about it, thanks Obama.

Well i think thats a pretty solid first post. mmmm, oooooo, yeeaahhh, thats nice, thats real nice.